Worse Than Death
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Tag for S3 finale No Rest for the Wicked. Sam tries to deal with Dean's death. Rated T for some language. No slash.


May 3, 2008

_This is a tag for the S3 finale, "No Rest for the Wicked." It starts with Bobby's POV, the switches to Sam. _

_Thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta. Reviews craved. I own nothing._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

**Worse Than Death**

_May 3, 2008 _

_12:07 AM_

It was a little after midnight when Bobby entered the house. He had waited at first for Ellen and Joshua, who had been late to begin with and then had to fight their way past demons on the outskirts of town. They were finally coming down the street when he decided he couldn't wait any longer. Once Bobby had seen the demons leave their hosts and head out into the night sky, and no Winchesters poked their heads out the door, he knew there were only two possible outcomes.

Both boys were dead.

Or Dean was dead.

He honestly didn't know which would be worse.

Opening the front door cautiously, shotgun at the ready, Bobby immediately covered his mouth. The stench of the dead old woman was overpowering in the foyer. Swatting at flies, he stepped past her and headed deeper into the house.

He didn't have to look far.

Sam was cradling Dean's body in the dining room, Ruby lying dead or maybe just unconscious beside them on the floor. Blood was everywhere.

_Oh, God_….

This was definitely the worse outcome.

Sam was hunched over his brother, sobbing. Bobby held up a hand when Ellen and Joshua came barreling through the front door, stopping them cold. The other hunters' faces paled when they caught a glimpse of the scene before them.

Bobby stepped toward Sam slowly, not wanting to startle the young man, who didn't seem to have noticed their arrival. "Sam?"

No answer. Sam either wasn't hearing him or was ignoring him. "Sam."

"Leave us alone…." Sam rasped in a broken whisper. "Just leave us alone."

"Sam, I'm so sorry, son."

Sam lowered Dean's body to the floor, dropping his forehead onto the bloody, unmoving chest.

Bobby fought back his own grief as he knelt beside Sam. The boy needed a father figure now, more than a fellow mourner, and John wasn't here. "Sam…we should get out of here."

Sam's grip on Dean tightened, and he began to quake. At first, Bobby thought the boy was crying, but quickly revoked that thought when he realized that the glass in the room--the cabinet doors, the windows, the place settings, all of it--was _rattling_.

"Get out," Sam growled lowly. He reminded Bobby of a wounded animal.

Bobby bit his lip, hoping to get through to the grieving man. "Sam, they might come back--"

"I said get out!" Sam roared. The shout was punctuated by the explosion of the nearby window. Bobby heard glass shattering in other rooms as well.

It took a moment for the old hunter's stupefied mind to connect the dots: Sam's psychic abilities had returned. Maybe that explained why Lilith hadn't killed him. It would make sense, he supposed. It might also explain why there suddenly seemed to be an earthquake going on in Indiana. The whole room was starting to tremble now_._

_The kid's having a meltdown_. Bobby cringed at that thought. A Winchester having a meltdown was bad enough, but when that Winchester was also a psychic….

He reached forward and grabbed Sam's head, forcing the kid to make eye contact. The vacant look in Sam's eyes scared the hell out of him. "Sam! Get ahold of yourself!"

The look went from vacant to deadly in a blink, and Bobby panicked. He went for the low blow. "This isn't what Dean wanted!"

He instantly regretted it when Sam's face crumpled. The quake stopped, leaving the house eerily silent. Bobby released Sam, letting the boy turn back to his fallen brother. His heart broke along with Sam's when the boy sobbed.

"No…."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_May 3, 2008_

_1:00 AM_

Sam didn't remember walking to the car. He only realized that's where he was when the black bulk of the Impala was looming right in front of him. Sam shifted Dean in his arms, maneuvering to move him through the open car door.

His brother weighed practically nothing in his arms. Sam wasn't even sweating from exertion, even though the car was nearly a mile from the house, and Dean was a solid one hundred and eighty pounds at least. If Sam hadn't been well past giving a damn, he might have marveled at how easy it was to carry Dean's weight.

_The learning curve is so fast. It's crazy! The switches that just flip in your brain…._

He gently placed Dean in the passenger seat, taking care to lay the head against the seat. Sam sat on his haunches for a moment, staring. Hot tears welled in his eyes again, making his vision swim. He struggled for control. Dean needed him to take care of things now.

_Dean's dead._

Sam's gaze drifted to his brother's bloody face, lingering on the closed eyes. He had closed them back at the house. It was what you were supposed to do, for some reason. Like it mattered. Dead people don't see things.

_It does matter_.

He sat staring. Something was wrong.

_Dean's dead._

He cocked his head slowly, unable to figure it out. Something was wrong with this. He could find the problem and fix it. Problem solving, piecing together clues, these were things Sam could do.

_Except when it comes to saving your brother's life, then you're useless_….

Oh. That was it. Dean shouldn't be in the front seat. A bloody corpse in the front window would attract attention. Of course. Dean had taught him better than that.

_Dean's dead._

Sam gently--always gently, he didn't want to hurt Dean--reached out and gathered his brother back into his arms, sliding him out of the front and placing him in the back seat, where prying eyes wouldn't see.

Lying on his side, Dean looked peaceful. Sam ignored the blood. He would clean the seats later. Dean looked like he was sleeping.

_Dean's in Hell. He died for_ me.

Something in his head snapped, and his brain started shutting down. He managed to stay on his feet, though. Wouldn't do to pass out. Someone needed to drive now that Dean was dead.

He faintly heard voices. They were close--behind him, maybe. Demons? No. Lilith and her minions were gone, for the moment. Sam hoped they came back soon; he wanted to kill them all. No, the voices weren't demons. They didn't seem to be talking to him either, so he didn't bother to listen, just catching a bit here and there as he methodically tucked a blanket in around Dean's still--_so still, Dean never sits still_--form.

_Get him outta here, Singer. The kid's in shock._

_Ellen, follow us, okay?_

_Sam? Sam, kiddo, I'm sorry. You hear me? Can you get in the car?_

Sam patted Dean's leg. _We'll be at Bobby's soon, okay?_ He stood, glancing at the rear door. It closed without him touching it. Couldn't drive with the doors open, after all. Hands guided him through the front door. Dean's? _I'll drive, Dean, you're in no condition._

He cocked his head, confused. Where was the steering wheel? It was right here before….

The car dipped a bit when someone dropped into the front seat beside him. Sam turned. Bobby was in the driver's seat. Oh, there's the wheel. Why was Bobby driving? Dean was going to be pissed. He barely let Sam drive, let alone anyone else. Why was Bobby driving, again? Had Sam been hurt, too? Dean was hurt.

_Dean's dead, Goddamn it! Aren't you paying attention, Sammy? Dean. Is. Dead_.

Sam's vision swam again. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe.

Bobby's voice pierced the silence, causing Sam to jump slightly. The older man's voice was surprisingly loud in the enclosed space.

"Oh, man…. I'm betting you don't have the keys, eh, Sam?" A beat. "Son? Sam, please, say something, kid."

What? Oh. Bobby needed the keys. Sam nodded toward the wheel. "I got it."

The Impala's engine turned over, the familiar rumble settling over them. Sam smiled faintly at Bobby, not comprehending the look of fear on the man's face. Shrugging, Sam turned away, his eyes settling on the passenger side mirror.

In the reflection, he saw Dean, sitting in the backseat, covered in blood and glaring daggers at him. The hateful accusation on his brother's face cut Sam to the core. He shook his head.

_No, please. Please, Dean. I tried. I tried so hard, you know I did! Please don't look at me like that. I was pinned! I couldn't move. Please don't be mad at me_….

He had been pinned to the wall when Yellow-Eyes had torn into Dean in that cabin. Just like he'd been pinned to that tree when Dean shot the bastard in that Wyoming cemetery. Just like when the Hellhound had come to rip Dean to shreds right in front of his eyes.

_Oh, God, no…._

Sam blinked heavily as the tears came again. The mirror was empty. His brother was gone.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_May 6, 2008_

_3:00 AM_

The desert was chilly this time of night. Even the suffocating heat of the pyre wasn't enough to block out the cold air. Sam absently pulled his coat tighter, more on reflex than anything else. He didn't care about anything as trivial as being cold.

Dean's body, wrapped carefully in a sheet and the contents of a carton of salt, burned furiously before him. Sam was standing almost in exactly the same spot as he had nineteen months earlier, when his father had burned just a foot or so from where Dean now rested.

Had the circumstances been different, Sam might have held out some blind hope that Dean would be reunited with their parents. But he knew better. Dean wasn't going wherever Mary and John Winchester had gone.

No, thanks to him, Dean was trapped in Hell. Burning. Screaming. Bleeding. Sam knew because he saw it in his dreams. He saw it every time he tried to sleep.

All because he wasn't strong enough. Because he'd never been strong enough.

Sam didn't delude himself with any such fantasies. Dean was dead and it was his fault, and that was all there was to it.

It took a few hours for the fire to burn out. Sam stood there long after the last of the flames flickered out.

Bobby was waiting in his car, about half a mile back, next to the Impala. Ellen, Jo, Joshua, Deacon and Jefferson were waiting for them at Bobby's house. They were going to throw Dean a wake. He supposed it was as much to lift his own flagging spirits as it was to celebrate Dean's life, but it didn't matter. Sam had no plans to leave the desert anytime soon.

Sam didn't care if the others waited for him or not. He wasn't going to attend the "party." Dean was dead. No amount of happy memories or toasts would change that. It was all Sam's fault.

Nothing would change that either.

When dawn broke, Sam collected the ashes in a small urn. He stared at it for a while, watching the way the morning sun glinted off the polished metal. He was going to find some appropriate mullet rock stickers for it when he got the chance. Dean would want a cool place to rest while he rode in back of the car. Sam would decorate the urn the same way he and Dean had decorated that first laptop. Sam couldn't even remember where they'd gotten those ridiculous stickers. All he remembered was the absolute joy on his brother's face as they worked on the computer together.

His vision started to swim, and he knees buckled, depositing him in the dirt.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

His brother didn't answer. Sam nodded once. He didn't blame Dean for not talking to him. He wasn't too thrilled with himself either. Silently, he pulled the urn to his chest, letting the grief crash over him, and prayed for death. He just wanted to join his brother.

No one answered.

He got up eventually—no choice, after all. But he didn't move on, and doubted he ever would.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_May 15, 2008_

_8:00 PM_

Sam drained his fourth glass. The past nine days were a blur. After salting and burning Dean, Sam had spent exactly twenty-seven hours and fourteen minutes more at Bobby's, enduring the condolences and sympathy of the few friends they'd managed to collect over the years.

They were good people, brave hunters. His father and Dean had done well meeting them, had excelled at cultivating relationships with them both as hunters and friends. Sam had wondered why he deserved to keep them.

Finally deciding that he didn't, he'd packed the car and left. He was half a state away before anyone even noticed he was gone. His family had taught him well.

Bobby called every day. Sam let it go to voicemail when he was sober enough to decide, but usually couldn't stop himself from answering when half in the bag, which had been just about every other day so far. Sam had a pattern. Drink, pass out, wake up, kneel in front of the toilet, nurse a hangover, sleep, wake up, resume drinking. The repetitive two-day cycle suited him.

Bobby didn't like it, but then, Bobby didn't get a vote. Bobby wasn't the orphan here. Bobby wasn't the one who'd let his beloved brother go to Hell on his account.

So, Sam endured Bobby's lectures, ignored his pleas to return, and maintained his cycle of drinking and puking. Eventually, he'd build up enough of a tolerance so that he could stay drunk every day. Then it all would get easier. His father wasn't the only one who was close to Jim, Jack and Jose. Sam would show him….

He shook off his absurd thoughts. Sam had always been a lightweight drinker. With Dean's help, he'd become more of a middleweight. He doubted he'd ever be a champion. He hadn't won anything yet after all, why start now?

The full-ride to Stanford might have counted had he finished school. The marriage to Jess might have mattered had he not let her die. His relationship with his Dad might have been really special had he not screwed it up. He might have been as good a brother as Dean if--

No, he never would have.

So, Sam sat at the end of some bar he'd forgotten the name of in…Who-Gives-a-Fuck, Ohio, downing whiskey. He thought it was Ohio, anyway. One of the O-states. He slid the empty glass back and forth between his hands across the slick surface of the bar, careful not to let it touch his palms.

His telekinesis had kicked back on full time.

He didn't care. He wasn't the Antichrist. The Antichrist was many things, but he wasn't a pathetic, drunken college dropout who was legally dead. The Antichrist wasn't _useless_. If these God-forsaken powers had reappeared in time, he might have been able to kill Lilith and save Dean.

Nope. Too little, too late. Sam intended to have that chiseled on his headstone. Sooner rather than later, preferably.

He was about to signal the bartender for another glass when someone slid onto the stool to his left. Sam didn't bother to spare a glance, at first. He idly hoped that it wasn't another gay guy looking to flirt, like the way-too-pushy one two towns back. He'd hate to have to break another hand.

When the other person didn't move, Sam gave in and cast a cautious glance over to the newcomer. He frowned when his eyes focused. The beady eyes, the lips that seemed to perpetually smirk even when they weren't…he'd recognize that face in his sleep. Seen it in his dreams, back before Dean started filling up his nightmares.

He turned back to his sliding glass, watching its repetitive, relaxing motion. Left-right. Left-right. What was that saying? _Small things amuse small_--

Sam blinked, reeling in his roaming thoughts. "What do you want?"

His visitor's melancholy expression didn't shift. "I thought I came here to gloat. To say 'I told you so.'"

"Why don't you?" Sam asked blandly, not really caring about the answer. He was just being polite.

"I remembered how much I liked you guys."

Sam looked back then. He detected no deceit or sarcasm. His visitor actually seemed sad. Go figure.

"Want another, sport? I'm buying."

Sam looked back at his glass, now full, then returned his gaze to the Trickster, who was lifting his own glass.

"To Dean."

Sam shrugged. _What the hell?_ He raised his own glass briefly, before draining it in one gulp.

He wondered how many it would take to pass out tonight.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_July 7, 2008_

_Midnight_

Sam slammed the vampire into a wall, dislocating its shoulder and sending it crashing to the floor. One stroke from his machete ended its misery. He was standing up when the other jumped him, knocking the blade from his hand.

The male caught him with a right hook, but Sam shook it off. He could play this game, too. Like Jake before him, he had the strength advantage here.

Sam stepped into the next punch, slamming his hand forward open-palmed, catching the vampire in the chin. His opponent went flying. Before it could regain its feet, Sam summoned the machete to his hand, spun, and hurled it. The blade sliced right through the male's neck, sending the head flying off before embedding itself in the wall.

Grunting in disgust, Sam retrieved the weapon, wiped it on his sleeve, and marched out of the warehouse.

He'd been on Lilith's trail for more than a month, playing cat-and-mouse with her all over the country. The little demon wench was getting creative in her distractions, now employing lesser monsters to keep him at bay while she escaped. Rumor had it the other demons weren't anxious to play with him anymore.

Once outside, he rang Bobby on his cell. He'd reconciled with the others, after crawling out of the alcoholic pit he'd dug the first few weeks after Dean died. Now, he just wanted revenge, and Lilith was at the top of his list. Of course, he wasn't sure what he was going to do when he found her, since Ruby had returned and reclaimed her knife. Sam was playing it by ear so far.

"Bobby," he snapped when the line connected. "She got away again. You have a track on her?"

"Not yet," Bobby replied. He sounded tired. "I think she's found a way to hide from this thing."

The mapping device that they'd been using since Indiana was still giving them good leads. With all of Lilith's tricks, though, it was becoming more useless all the time.

"Summon Ruby again," Sam ordered before closing his phone. There had to be another way to find Lilith, and Ruby was still holding back. This time, the bitch was giving him answers.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_October 1, 2008_

_7:00 AM_

Sam watched the ocean drift leisurely by from the railing. He liked this spot on the old freighter. It was quiet. It was warmer than his small cabin, being right behind one of those big deck vents. It was also the best place to remember his brother.

He didn't particularly enjoy reminiscing about Dean. It was agonizing, but he needed to do it. He needed to remember what he'd lost. It drove him forward, faster. It was going to make killing Lilith and all of her brood that much sweeter.

That was why he was on this ship. When Ruby refused to give him her knife--which she'd suffered for, but still hadn't relented--Sam decided that it was time to track down the Colt.

Bela had said she'd sold it to someone overseas. Then again, she'd made a career out of lying. Her spirit board pointed him in the right direction though, one of the few discoveries that had made breaking into her penthouse worthwhile. The Colt had gone first to England, and then across Europe to North Africa. So, Sam was going to North Africa. He'd hunt the gun down, and get it back.

Supposedly, it was some rare antiquities collector, like the ones he'd heard about in movies, but Sam would bet all the money in his pockets that it was a demon. Who else even knew about the old gun?

He'd booked cheap and discreet passage on a freighter in New York, leaving the Impala--and Dean's urn--in Bobby's care, and quietly leaving the country to retrieve the stolen gun. That had been a week earlier. An airplane would naturally have been faster, but he was still legally dead and he was carrying too many weapons to get through airport security unchallenged. Not to mention that he would be returning with a large revolver.

Now, two of the ship's crew--Brazilian merchant sailors and treacherous ones at that--came around the corner, saw him, smiled nervously and promptly went back the way they had come. Sam paid them no mind. At the start of this trip, one of them had seen the money clip in his hand and decided that he was an easy mark. A naïve American traveling alone in less than savory conditions, going on some foolhardy adventure around the world. The sailor and two of his buddies had tried to sneak into his cabin and rob him. Probably kill him while they were at it, but it didn't matter.

One had gotten a bullet in his shoulder for his trouble; another had been slammed into a bulkhead without Sam even touching him. The third had begged for his life, fleeing when Sam dismissed him. Word passed fast among the superstitious sailors. The whole ship avoided him now, even the captain, who had suddenly decided that his trip was free of charge. Sam heard a few of them talking about that old albatross poem…in which Sam was apparently either the albatross or the curse that followed it.

Didn't really matter he supposed, but being the curse sounded right.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_October 29, 2008_

_11:00 AM_

The Colt _had_ been bought by a collector; that much was true. That the collector was possessed by one of Lilith allies had been unfortunately left out by the spirits Sam had contacted on Bela's board, but met with Sam's expectations.

The _Neptunia Mediterraneo_ had dropped him off at Saidia, Morocco, and her captain had promised Sam personally that they'd be back around noon on November 1st. Sam had every reason to believe the good captain, not the least of which was the fact that he could read the man's mind like an open book. The captain was also plainly terrified to be in Sam's presence. After offering Sam another free ride back to the States--so long as he stayed below decks--he had quickly excused himself.

That left Sam three weeks to travel the thirty miles to Oujda, near the Algerian border, track down the collector, get the Colt and return.

This was a real adventure, the kind he and Dean had dreamed of going on once upon a time. Tracking down some ancient relic and finding it, like Indiana Jones. They'd almost dreamed it right. Sam _was_ hunting down a relic, and Dean had died in Indiana. Close enough for the way Winchester luck ran.

Dean haunted his dreams every night. He saw Dean in Hell, suffering, and it was always something different, every day. They were visions, of course, not dreams. Sam knew what he was seeing was real.

With Jess, he had resisted sleep, becoming an insomniac despite Dean's attempts to prevent it. It had taken months for the nightmares to stop. These didn't. These weren't nightmares. Unlike with Jess, Sam used sleeping pills to keep himself asleep. If the horrific visions were the only way he could see Dean, then so be it. The pills kept him trapped in the visions, sometimes lasting through the night and beyond--which was what Sam preferred.

After all, why should Dean be the only one to suffer?

Sam located the collector--after two weeks--in a large, well-adorned dwelling on the outskirts of the desert town. It wasn't very well defended. There were a few cameras and a wall, but no guards, the owner lived alone.

At least, he lived alone _now_.

As Sam entered the house, he found a pile of bodies in a back room…a few men, but mostly women and children, likely the collector's family. Sam slipped toward the front of the house, carefully making sure he was silent. He had a few mojo bags with him to mask his presence, and they seemed to work pretty well.

He had to be careful though. Exorcising demons had become problematic of late, especially after Sam had witnessed what those demons had done to his brother once they were back in Hell. Making Dean's suffering worse didn't appeal to Sam. So, he was avoiding them for the moment, until he could retrieve the Colt and start killing the bastards outright.

The first floor was a bust, so Sam headed down to the basement. There, he found a virtual honeycomb of locked rooms. It took a while, but he finally found a small, circular room in the center of the complex with a single glass display case.

The Colt sat, gleaming and polished, on a pedestal inside the case. A short multi-lingual sign described the gun, its use and origin. _Like a Goddamned art museum_….

The case was wired, so Sam proceeded cautiously. He'd need time, so he laid a line of salt by the door and the two air vents, then took a spray paint can out into the hallway by the door. Once he was safe inside the room, he expertly disarmed the security system, and proceeded to unhook all the different security devices that guarded the weapon.

He finished inside of an hour, a new record for this kind of job. Dean might have congratulated him, a lifetime ago. The compliment would have filled Sam with pride and a feeling of accomplishment. There were few things in life better than earning the praise of a big brother you idolized.

Now, Sam felt nothing, just a brief flash of irritation that the job had taken so long. He hefted the Colt, checking the chamber. All six bullets were still there. It was exactly as it had been when Bela lifted it from their safe.

"Well, well," a voice suddenly called out from behind him. Sam spun, finding a dark-skinned man standing at the salt line. The collector, no doubt. The man spoke heavily-accented English. "You're the last person I expected to find here."

Sam smirked at him, staring straight into the oily black eyes. "Funny you should say that."

"Why's that?" the possessed man asked smugly.

"Because I am the last person you're going to find here," Sam retorted, raising the Colt. The demon jumped, startled, and tried to dive out of the way, but the painted devil's trap Sam had drawn beneath the ornate rug in the hall kept it in the line of fire. The bullet caught it in the face as it turned back toward Sam, and the man went down as the energy crackled along his body.

Sam collected his tools, hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and stepped from the room. He checked the man's pulse as he cleared the doorway, more out of formality than concern. The man's skin was cold and clammy to the touch. The collector had been dead for quite some time.

Sam actually took that as a blessing, but he showed no outward relief. Leaving the unfortunate man behind, Sam did a search of the rest of the rooms, finding no other demons and nothing of particular value to a hunter. He did find a solid silver stake and an old French spell book--in carefully labeled displays like the Colt--and lifted those. Sam didn't enjoying robbing people like this, but there was a war on and humanity _had_ to win it. They needed all the help they might get.

He tucked the Colt into his bag as he left the house, and walked back to the borrowed car he'd left a mile down the road. The owner hadn't been pleased to lend his only vehicle to a mysterious American, but had proven more cooperative after Sam Obi-waned him. Sam would have plenty of time on the trip back across the Atlantic to feel remorse for his actions here.

He was back in Saidia later that afternoon, and the _Neptunia Mediterraneo_ returned right on schedule three days later.

When the freighter docked in New York a few weeks later, Sam slipped quietly ashore, telling no one on the ship, and leaving an envelope with the originally agreed upon cost of his cabin on the bed.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_December 25, 2008_

_10:00 PM_

Sam nursed his third beer, clicking the remote in a hopeless attempt to find something distracting on television. The motel had a halfway decent channel selection, and there was still nothing on that didn't take Sam somewhere he didn't want to go.

There was a football game on channel 17, which reminded him of last Christmas, when he'd watched a similar game with Dean.

_I can't just sit around, drinking eggnog, pretending everything's okay…when I know next Christmas you'll be dead. I just can't._

The old animated Burl Ives' _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ was on 32, but Sam had watched that practically ever year growing up. Every year, with Dean and his father. Well, mostly Dean. Sam didn't want to go too far with those memories either.

The last few months, he'd buried himself in memories of Dean, to the point where it was masochistic. He was feeding his quest for revenge with pain. It worked for him. Every demon he killed with his mental abilities or with the Colt helped fill the hole left by Dean a little more.

In a few more decades, he might even feel like a person again.

But this night, he just wanted to decompress. He was so fucking tired. All month, he'd been one step behind Lilith, almost catching the slippery demon-bitch twice, only to have her escape at the eleventh hour. The only consolation for his efforts had been a string of dead lower demons in his wake.

Sam went back to the football game. Maybe remembering Dean was what he needed, even if it wasn't necessarily what he _wanted_ right then. The visions were dimming of late, giving him less and less of Dean as he slept. Sam didn't know what it meant. One couldn't die in Hell, so he was sure his brother wasn't gone.

Maybe the demons were hiding Dean from him. He'd have to ask the next one he captured. If they were somehow concealing his brother, they'd regret denying him.

A knock at the door startled him out of his morose thoughts. He stood, a little wobbly, but that was more from exhaustion than the beer. As he approached the door to the room, he stretched out his mind, taking a reading on whoever was outside.

_Odd. Wonder why they didn't call, first_….

He opened the door, revealed Ellen and Jo. They were dressed in thick coats to shut out the frigid Michigan air, and holding bottles of whiskey and eggnog.

"Merry Christmas, Sam!" Jo said, a little too brightly. Sam would have known the cheerfulness was forced even if he couldn't read the thoughts behind it. He wasn't trying to, but Jo was projecting so loud that Sam almost covered his ears out of reflex.

Sam frowned, looking at the two of them. "What--?"

Ellen hefted the loaded grocery bags in her hands, frowning back. "You gonna invite us in, or what?"

Sam nodded, watching the two women carefully as they stepped over the salt line and moved through the devil's trap on the carpet. One couldn't be too careful these days.

"Ellen…what are you doing here?" Sam didn't normally read people without permission. He had enough trouble keeping his own thoughts under control.

Ellen sat the bags on the small table and glanced back at him as she took her coat off. "We didn't want you spending this Christmas alone, watching some crappy ball game and brooding over…well, everything. You're part of our family, Sam, whether you think so or not."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him. "Don't bother with all that 'don't worry about me' stuff. Bobby and Deacon are already unloading the booze from the truck."

He turned in time to see the men in question coming through the door, carrying more bags. Each nodded in greeting as they passed. Sam closed the door, unable to think of anything to say. He shook his head silently.

_We didn't want you spending this Christmas alone._

His friends meant well…but didn't they get it?

Sam _was_ alone.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_January 24, 2009_

_11:45 PM_

Sam stumbled through the door to his motel room, dropping his duffel unceremoniously on the nearest bed.

He'd gotten close to Lilith this time. Practically on top of her. But she'd been one step ahead and laid a trap. Before he'd reached the warehouse, he'd been ambushed by ten of her demons. He'd barely made it out alive, but finally did, and to his credit, eight of them hadn't.

The victory wasn't without cost, though. Lilith had escaped, and Sam was pretty certain his ribs were bruised. His right eye was swollen almost shut. He'd damn near lost the Colt--would have too, had he not been able to take control of the demon that was going for it and turn him against his buddies.

Sam ran a hand over his forehead, wincing with each throb of his brutal headache. He'd pop some painkillers, then call Bobby and listen to the rant he knew he was going to get for going in before the others arrived.

He got two steps into the room when he happened to look up, and realized, to his alarm, that he wasn't alone. He reached into his coat for the Colt. "Who the--?"

That was as far as he got before one of the wooden chairs from the dining table left the floor and shot at him legs first, pinning him against the closed door and knocking the Colt from his hand.

"Sloppy…."

Sam growled, trying to push the chair off of him. His ramped up strength wasn't helping him that night, though. _Wait…what the_--

He knew that voice.

Before he could say anything, his attacker stepped out of the shadows by the window, dressed in a long black overcoat and carrying a wicked looking blade in his right hand. The eyes were what transfixed Sam though…black as tar, pinning him as effectively as the chair.

"Howdy, little brother."

END


End file.
